


Thaw

by propergenius



Category: Frozen (2013), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Disney, Fluff, Frozen AU, M/M, Minor Character Death, alternative universe, frozen, frozenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-08 20:21:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5511779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/propergenius/pseuds/propergenius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When King Mycroft freezes the kingdom of Arendelle with his ice powers, his brother Prince Sherlock must journey into the snow and try to break the spell. With the help of John Watson, a burly mountaineer with a pet Reindeer, will Prince Sherlock restore spring to Arendelle? Will the two brothers ever repair their frozen relationship?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Partly inspired by the beautiful fan art of tumblr user @Emillu. A huge thanks to tumblr users @davidburked, @toxicsemicolon and @hideouspumpkin for the encouragement! I plan to update every day, and hopefully be finished by New Years!

“Mycroft! Mycroft, wake up!” Sherlock whispered, shaking his older brother. The younger boy pushed his dark, unruly curls away from his face clumsily with one hand, the other furiously poking his brother. “Psst, Mycroft!”

“Go back to sleep, Sherlock” Mycroft said, refusing to so much as open his eyes. He hoped sincerely that ignoring Sherlock would deter him. Unfortunately, for a boy of just 5, Sherlock was incredibly stubborn.

“I can’t, I just can’t!” Sherlock pressed on. He stood up and began to jump on the bed, laughing as he did. “The Northern lights are lighting up the sky, Aurora Borealis! If the sky’s awake, then I’m awake, and I want to play!”

“Go and play by yourself!” Mycroft said, laughing as he pushed his brother off the bed. Sherlock landed on the floor with a thud and pouted for a moment. Just as he was about to give up and go back to his own bed at the other side of the room, his eyes flew open. He had an idea. 

Crawling onto his brother’s bed once more and climbing on top of his brother, Sherlock leaned in close and grinned. “Do you want to build a snowman?”

Mycroft opened his eyes suddenly, smiling at his younger brother. Even at his young age, Sherlock knew exactly how to persuade him to do whatever he wanted. The two boys giggled excitedly before dashing downstairs. 

***

“Do the magic!” Sherlock shouted, jumping up and down in front of his brother. Mycroft’s 8 year old eyebrows were furrowed in concentration, pressing his palms together. Sparkling flakes appeared from his fingertips and whipped around his small hands as he looked up to smile at his brother.

“Ready, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked his brother, smiling mischievously. Sherlock nodded furiously, and with that Mycroft rubbed his palms together, sending cold air into the ballroom. Sherlock gasped excitedly as the snowflakes continued to dance around Mycroft’s hands, eventually forming a snowball between his small, 8 year old palms. Laughing, he threw the snowball into the air, both boys watching as it burst in mid air and snow started to fall on the cold, marble floor. 

“This is amazing!” Sherlock shrieked in delight, running around the ballroom with his mouth open, trying desperately to catch one on his tongue. 

Mycroft smiled proudly. “Little brother, watch this!” Mycroft stomped his foot, and underneath it ice began to form, spreading quickly across the large marble floor. Both boys skidding a little at the loss of traction, giggling happily as Mycroft ran around, Sherlock close at his heels. As snow began to collect in large piles on the ground, the two boys began to take it in their small hands and form snowballs, playfully throwing them at each other. 

“Sherlock, follow me!” Mycroft threw himself onto a particularly large snow bank and proceeded to stretch his arms and legs out as far as they could reach, flapping them wildly. The smaller boy mimicked his brother’s movements, his dark curls speckled with the snowflakes still falling from the ceiling above. Snow angels complete, the older boy stood and moved to walk away. Sherlock, all too eager to follow his brother, nearly slipped and fell onto the hard floor, still slippery with ice. Mycroft scooped the smaller boy up, and they both laughed. “I love you, Mycroft!” Sherlock giggled, hugging his older brother before steadying himself and running off happily into the wintry ballroom. 

The room was filled with childish laughter as the two boys continued to enjoy the snow that Mycroft had magically created. Mycroft propelled himself forward on the ice with his magic, holding Sherlock’s hand so that they both glided across the ice as if by a strong wind. Eager to be independent, Sherlock let go of Mycroft’s hand, jumping into the air and sticking his arms out as if he could fly just from the sheer momentum. Mycroft pointed to the ground just before Sherlock landed, creating from his fingertips a small heap of soft, powdery snow for him to land on. 

Sherlock giggled as he landed, picking snow up in his small hands and throwing it into the air. “This is amazing!”

Mycroft grinned. Eager to impress his younger brother with his powers, Mycroft created a slightly bigger snowbank in front of the one Sherlock was currently inhabiting. With a squeal of glee, Sherlock jumped to the next bank. “Again, again!”

“Hang on!” Mycroft said, laughing at his brother’s excitement, created another snow bank in front of the second. 

“Catch me!” Sherlock said, jumping into midair once again. Mycroft quickly created an even taller snowbank, catching Sherlock once again. 

“Again, again!” Sherlock yelled excitedly, jumping forward into the air once again. Mycroft built another snowbank, and another and another, each one taller than the one before. 

“Wait!” Mycroft insisted, continuing to build the snowbanks in front of his brother. Sherlock was getting quicker now, nearly sprinted off each snowbank as soon as he landed. Mycroft ran beside him, shooting magic at the ground as quickly as he could, catching Sherlock as he jumped from each one.

“Slow down!” Mycroft yelled, but Sherlock ignored him, happily jumping from snowbank to snowbank with a grin on his face, his dark curls bouncing, cheeks and nose bright pink from the cold. Mycroft struggled to keep up with his brother, running as fast as he could, when suddenly he fell backward, slipping on the ice.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft yelled, but he was too late. Sherlock had already jumped from the last snowbank, which was now very tall indeed, blissfully unaware that there wasn’t a new one to catch him. 

Mycroft scrambled, still sprawled on the floor, sat up quickly and pointed towards Sherlock, trying desperately to create a snowbank tall enough to catch him. But Sherlock was falling fast, too fast, and snowy gust of Mycroft’s magic hit his younger brother squarely in the head. 

Sherlock fell with a thud to the hard, ice covered floor, and then… silence. The room echoed with it as Mycroft stared at his motionless brother, begging him silently to jump up and let him know that it was all a prank. But he didn’t. Mycroft ran over to his brother, shaking. 

“Oh, Sherlock… I’m sorry…” Mycroft whispered, taking his brother’s head in his lap and cradling him gently. Suddenly, Mycroft gasped; a single one of Sherlock’s dark curls was turning bright white, right before his eyes. Mycroft burst into tears at the sight.

“Mummy! Daddy!” Mycroft screamed, holding his brother closer. Around him, the ice was darkening and growing thicker as he cried. 

“Sherlock, it’s okay! I’ve got you,” Mycroft cried, trying desperately to warm Sherlock’s small, cold body against the now rapidly decreasing temperature of the ballroom.

Suddenly, the king and queen burst into the ballroom, gasping at the dark ice surrounding their sons. 

“Mycroft, what have you done?” The queen scolded, running over to where her sons sat on the ice covered floor. “This is getting out of hand!”

“It was an accident!” Mycroft wailed, wiping the tears from his face. “I’m so sorry, Sherlock”. 

The king leaned over to scoop Sherlock into his arms. “He’s ice cold!” he told the queen, cradling his youngest son closer to his chest.

“I know what we have to do,” the queen said, grabbing her oldest son by the hand as the family dashed out of the freezing cold ballroom. 


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft clung to his mother’s back as the horse galloped quickly through the forest. Looking back, Mycroft saw his father on a second horse, clutching Sherlock tightly to his chest. The younger boy looked so small in his father’s arms, so pale and fragile. Mycroft burst into tears, burying his face in his mother’s back. His father sped up until the horses were sprinting side by side, and only then did Mycroft noticed the trail of thick ice lining the forest ground that marked their path. 

After a another few minutes, his mother pulled the reigns and the horse stopped, his father doing the same. They jumped off their horses and walked forward, keeping each other close.

They were facing a foggy clearing, scattered with moss covered boulders. and small columns of steam emitted from the ground in several areas. Mycroft clung to his mother’s leg tightly and she took Sherlock from her husband’s hands and cradled him in her arms. 

“Please, we need help!” The queen yelled into the clearing. “It’s my son!”

Suddenly, the Earth shook. The boulders rolled towards them, and Mycroft pulled at his bottom of his mother’s dress, terrified. His father placed a hand on his head in comfort and pulled his family close. Once the boulders approached them, Mycroft gasped as they unrolled themselves to reveal that they were not boulders at all, but in fact what must have been nearly a hundred small, stone-skinned trolls, dressed in moss clothing and wearing ornamental jewelry around their necks. Mycroft couldn’t believe his eyes; he'd only ever heard of trolls in his fairy tale books. But then again, no one else he knew had the ice powers that he did. 

“It’s the King and Queen!” One of the trolls shouted, and the rest of the small creatures gasped. Waving his hand to silence, the biggest troll stepped forward. He was dressed in a cape made of moss, and was clearly their leader. 

“Your majesty,” the troll said, bowing his head. The other trolls did the same. 

Taking Mycroft’s hand, the troll addressed the queen. “Was he born with the powers, or cursed?”

“Born,” the queen answered, “and they’re getting stronger by the day.” Leaning down, she presented Sherlock to the troll, who brought a hand to his dark curls and pushed them aside, feeling his small forehead. 

“You are very lucky it was merely his head,” the troll, “for the heart is not so easily changed. The head, however, can be persuaded.”

Mycroft looked on with eyes wide. What was so difficult about the heart?

“Do what you must,” the queen said quietly. 

The troll nodded. “I recommend we remove all magic, even memories of magic, to be safe,” he said, moving his hand from Sherlock’s head and gesturing upward, creating in midair what appeared to be a screen of sorts for Sherlock’s mind. Before the small family, images were displayed. One of Mycroft and Sherlock happily ice skating through the palace ballroom. With a flick of the troll’s hand, they were outside on the fjord. Another image, this one of Sherlock and Mycroft laughing as they tossed snowballs at each other in one of the palace hallways. Again, the troll flicked his wrist and the background changed, showing them outside on the castle’s front lawn. 

“Don’t worry though,” the troll said, continuing to change the images being displayed. “I’ll keep the fun!” Bringing his hands together around the now fading images, he balled them together and created what looked like a glowing ball of light, which he brought to Sherlock’s head. Instantly, the color returned to Sherlock’s pale cheeks, and he smiled gently, eyes still closed, but now presumably in sleep. 

Mycroft touched a hand to Sherlock’s now warming forehead, turning to the troll and furrowing his brow in confusion. “So Sherlock won’t know that I have powers?” he asked.

“It’s for the best,” the queen answered, quietly but firmly.

“Mycroft, listen to me…” the troll said, beckoning to him. Mycroft approached him tentatively, and the troll took his hand. 

“Your powers will only grow stronger,” the troll explained, gesturing into the air with his free hand. Yet another sparkling screen appeared, but this one showed only a shadow of what Mycroft knew was himself, only older. Beautiful blue snowflakes fluttered around him as the older Mycroft spun around. “There is beauty in them. However, there is also great danger,” The snowflakes turned a bright, horrible red and Mycroft gasped as the older version of himself fell to the ground. “You must learn to control it. Fear will be your greatest enemy!” The projection of older Mycroft cowered on the ground as the bright red snowflakes morphed into silhouettes of unknown people, who approached and attacked in a burst of bright light, and then it was gone. Mycroft screamed, grabbing onto his father’s leg. 

“No, we’ll protect him,” the queen said. “He can control it, I’m sure. And until then, we’ll lock the gates, we’ll reduce the staff, we’ll limit his contact with people and keep his powers hidden, from everyone, including Sherlock”. 

Still cradling Sherlock in her arms, the queen climbed onto her horse. Mycroft opened his mouth to protest, but his father grabbed him quickly and returned to his horse as well. 

“Thank you,” the queen said, throwing some money onto the moss-covered ground, and with that, they were off towards the palace again.

As soon as they returned to the palace and Sherlock was safely placed into his parent’s bed, the king and queen began to make the changes. Mycroft’s bed was moved from the room he once shared with his brother to a room down the hall, and soon after his clothes were moved as well. As the queen had promised, the gates were closed and the staff reduced, so that only a few of the most trusted servants were allowed to stay, although none of them knew exactly what had caused this change. Mycroft cried well into the night, begging his parents to change their minds, explaining over and over that he hadn’t meant to hurt his brother. His parents had ignored him, however, and eventually Mycroft’s sobs quieted as he fell asleep in his new, unfamiliar bedroom. 

***

When Sherlock awoke the next morning, he was surprised to find himself in his parent’s room, but nevertheless excitedly jumped out of bed to find his brother. Running to their room, Sherlock pulled open the door, only to find that his brother was not there. In fact, nothing of his brother’s was in the room at all; all of Mycroft’s toys and clothes had been moved, and even his bed was missing. Sherlock scratched his head softly. He remembered that just last night, they had been playing in the snow together outside on the palace grounds. Had he made Mycroft mad?

Sherlock bounded out of the room and into the hallway, just in time to see his brother opening the door to a spare bedroom. 

“Mycroft!” Sherlock yelled excitedly, approaching his brother. Mycroft turned to him but said nothing, pausing for only a moment to offer a sad glance, before retreating to the bedroom and closing the door.

“Mycroft?” He asked into the door, but he received no answer. Sherlock’s face fell. Mycroft must be mad at him then. Sadly, Sherlock retreated to his own bedroom, where he sat on the floor and tried desperately to remember what it was he could have done to make Mycroft not love him anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the kudos and for reading! I am in love with this fic so far, and I hope you all enjoy it!
> 
> This chapter was a bit tough to write, simply because there's a lot of time that has to be accounted for, while we're still seeing the changes our characters are going through, and how the relationship is changing.

After that day, Sherlock saw less and less of his brother. For years, each day Sherlock would approach Mycroft’s door and knock, begging him to come out so that they could play together. The two boys, who had always been the best of friends, were suddenly separated at all times, and Sherlock for the life of him couldn’t understand why. 

***

(2 years later)

On Sherlock’s 7th birthday, after entirely too much cake, Sherlock excitedly realized that a thick dusting of snow was covering the ground outside. Laughing excitedly, he ran to Mycroft’s door. Surely, today Mycroft would answer. 

“Mycroft!” He shouted into the key hole of the door. “It’s snowing outside!” He waited patiently, but received no answer.   “Do you want to build a snowman?” Sherlock asked sweetly, smirking; this had always worked on Mycroft in the past, and he couldn’t believe he hadn't tried it before. 

“Go away, Sherlock!” Mycroft yelled. 

Sherlock frowned, taking his new magnifying glass Mummy had given him out of his pocket and putting it up to the keyhole in the door. Seeing nothing, he huffed. 

“We used to be best friends, Mycroft! Why won’t you play with me?” Sherlock begged, flopping onto the floor in front of his brother’s door. After a few minutes without an answer, Sherlock stood up again. 

“I’m sorry if I made you mad…” Sherlock whispered into the keyhole before sauntering away.

***  
(2 years later)

Mycroft sighed. Now 12 years old, his powers were much stronger and still impossible to control, as evidenced by the thick coating of ice that was slowly creeping up his wall. 

Every afternoon at the same time, Sherlock would approach his door and knock 5 times, begging him to come out and play. Each time Mycroft heard his brother’s voice, he couldn’t help but think of that night years ago when he had hurt Sherlock, and the room filled with snow flurries. 

Most days, Mycroft said nothing, simply tuning his brother out and he flipped the pages of his book. On this particular day though, Mycroft approached the door. 

A few days before, his mother had quietly left a pair of clothes on his bedside table while he was still asleep. Beside them, there was a note: Conceal, don’t feel, it read in her beautifully practiced script. It had become a mantra of theirs, as if Mycroft could ever forget it. He had slipped the gloves on and noticed immediately that the room warmed slightly as his hands did. Maybe this was finally the answer to his problems. 

And so, at the sound of his brother’s voice, Mycroft approached the door. He could barely hide his smile as he gripped the door’s handle slowly. 

Suddenly, Mycroft jumped back. Even with the gloves, his powers couldn’t be stopped; the door handle was completely coated in ice, and it was only spreading. Mycroft backed away from the door in fear.

“Sherlock, go away now!” He shouted. “Just… just leave me alone!”

He heard a sad, heart-breaking sigh from his now 9 year old brother, and then footsteps as he slowly walked away. Mycroft imagined how long Sherlock’s curls had gotten since he’d last seen him; the palace was so large that they very rarely, if ever, ran into each other. Mycroft missed his brother dearly, but, as his parents had told him, this was for the best. This was the only way to keep Sherlock safe. 

Mycroft sat down on his bed calmly, willing the tears not to fall. Conceal, don’t feel. Don’t let it show.

***

(2 years later)

Prince Sherlock was incredibly smart. “Too smart for his own good!” as Mummy would say. That being said, there wasn’t much for such a smart boy to do in an empty palace. 

Sherlock had realized he’d had a knack for figuring people out; solving mysteries, one could say. It had come to his attention one rainy afternoon in June, when he heard his mother and father arguing over a missing painting that had seemingly disappeared without a trace from one of the ballrooms. 

“I know who took it….” Sherlock offered quietly. His parents turned to him, eyes wide.

“Sherlock, did you see someone take it?” His mother asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” Sherlock admitted. “But, I did see a mark on the wall from where someone’s hand had been as they took it. The mark was dark, all soot; so clearly it had to be someone who works with the chimneys. Only Mark and Seth work the chimneys. There was also a rather large footprint on the sofa next to where the painting was, so someone must have stepped on it while they were taking it down. Seth is very tall, so he wouldn’t have needed to stand on the sofa to reach it. So it must have been Mark.”

The king and queen stared at their youngest son with wide eyes. “Sherlock, how do you know all this?” the king asked.

“I… I don’t know,” Sherlock said, “I guess I just notice things.”

While this talent of Sherlock’s was indeed spectacular, it didn’t really get much use in a castle with such a limited number of servants. But as Sherlock grew, his mind only grew stronger; without much to do, Sherlock became bored.

He’d read nearly every book in the library, even the old, dusty ones his father kept in on a special shelf in the back. He’d figured out everything he needed to know about each of the maids and footmen in the house, and even let the chef know that his wife was having an affair. He’d learned French, and a little Italian, but soon he grew even more bored. 

There was, however, one mystery that Sherlock couldn’t solve. No matter how many books he read, no matter how much he deduced, he simply couldn’t understand why Mycroft had seemingly disappeared when they were small. That didn’t stop him from trying though. 

On New Years Eve when he was 11, Sherlock finally decided to give it his best shot. He stayed up all night, making a list of every single possibility, every single thing he could have done or that could have happened that could have possibly made his brother want to shut him out. 

The next morning, bright and early, Sherlock bounded out of bed and to his brother’s door. He knocked 5 times, hard and confident, before shouting.

“Mycroft! I have a list here of reasons why you’ve shut yourself in that room for so long! Every day, I’ll read you one, and if I’m right, you have to tell me!” 

When Sherlock got no answer, he yelled again: “Say nothing if that’s okay!”

Again, he got no answer. 

“Okay, number 1: I ripped your favorite jumper?”

Nothing but silence answered his question. Sherlock sighed. Maybe tomorrow. 

***

“Number 128: Your hands suddenly turned into tentacles?”

***

“Number 354: The real Mycroft was abducted and you’re simply a clone but you know that I’ll know if I see you?”

***

“Number 681: You’re ashamed that your hair isn’t as curly as mine?”

***

“Number 974: You’re secretly an art thief?”

***  
On day number 1,464, Sherlock reached the end of his list. Now 15, Sherlock was tall and thin with a wiry frame and a mop of long, dark curls on his head. In the past 1,464 days, he’d only seen Mycroft 7 times, but Mycroft never made eye contact with him. 

Sherlock looked down at his list, lip trembling slightly.

“Number 1,464: You just don’t love me any more.” Sherlock sighed. For the 1,464th time, he received no answer, and that was when he decided to simply give up.


	4. Chapter 4

“Sherlock!” the queen called from her bedroom. Sherlock jumped up from his desk, nearly flinging the book he was reading across the room. Dark curls bouncing, he bounded toward his parents’ bedroom. He slowed slightly in front of Mycroft’s door as he passed, but knew that knocking wouldn’t be worth the effort. Shaking his head, he proceeded to make his way to his parents’ room, throwing himself into their arms. 

“I hope you have a good trip!” he said warmly. “I can’t believe you’ll be gone for two whole weeks, I’ll be so lonely!”

The king smiled at his youngest son. “We’ll be back before you know it,” he said, ruffling Sherlock’s dark curls. 

***

Mycroft stood at the foot of the staircase and watched his parents descend, suitcases in hand. Mycroft bowed to them formally; for years his mother had come into his room and taught him how to behave properly, and he was finally able to show her what he’d learned. 

Straightening up, he made eye contact with his mother, his face falling. “Do you really have to go?” he asked sadly, looking down at his hands, which he held tightly together in front of him. 

“Don’t worry, Mike,” the queen reassured him. “I’m sure you’ll be just fine.”

The queen turned, making her way towards the front doors of the palace, and her husband followed, suitcases in tow. 

“We’ll see you in two weeks.”

***

Sherlock stared at the horizon, willing himself not to cry. The past few weeks had been so horrible, but without Mycroft around to help him with the planning and the arrangements, he had to keep his head up.

When his parents hadn’t returned after two weeks’ time, Sherlock had assumed they had simply decided to extend their stay on the Northern Isles. Surely they’d be back soon. 

But when another 2 weeks had passed and there had been no word, Sherlock knew his worst fears had come true. This was confirmed when, a few days later, they received word that his mother’s suitcase had washed up on the shore of the Northern Isles, seemingly without either of his parents. 

And now, here he was, standing alone beside the graves of his parents. Since they had gotten the news, Sherlock had seen even less of his brother, who presumably was still locked up in his room. Sherlock sighed, only vaguely aware of what the priest was saying beside him. Pulling his black cloak tighter around him, Sherlock realized that he had never been more alone in his life.

***

After the funeral, Sherlock swallowed his pride and approached Mycroft’s door for the first time in months. Closing his steely blue-grey eyes, he knocked. 

“Mycroft?” As Sherlock expected, there was only silence on the other side. He continued. 

“Mycroft, please, I know you’re in there. People are asking where you’ve been. They say for me to hold my head up, to have courage, and I’m trying to, but… please Mycroft, I’m right out here for you. Just let me in…”

Again, Sherlock received no answer from his older brother. Tears welled in Sherlock’s eyes as he leaned against the door. 

“We only have each other, Mycroft. It’s just you and me. What are we going to do?” he whispered, more to himself than his brother now. He slid down with his back to the door and sat there, just like he had many times as a child. The memory only caused his heart to break more.

“Do you want to build a snowman?” Sherlock whispered, his voice cracking as the tears that had been building for a week now began to fall. His dark curls shuddered softly as he began to sob on the floor of the palace hallway, resting his head in his hands. It was as if all the pain, all the sadness he’d ever felt in his life had suddenly burst forth, and he had no way to stop it. Never in his life had he felt so alone.

On the other side of the door, Mycroft sat cross-legged on the floor as well, tears flowing down his face. He bit down on his knuckle, trying desperately to silence his sobs. If only he could reach out to his baby brother, if only he could make him feel better…. but he must keep his powers secret from Sherlock, and the thick layer of ice and snow coating the wood floor of the bedroom, brought on by Mycroft’s sadness and fear, only emphasized the need to keep Sherlock away from him and his powers, no matter what.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're finally here, it's coronation day!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's read this and commented or given kudos! It is so encouraging and I'm so glad you're all enjoying it!
> 
> Feel free to follow me on Tumblr if you'd like @propergenius ! XO!

(3 years later)

Sunlight flooded into the large window and onto Sherlock’s messy, dark curls. Flushed from the warmth of sleep, Sherlock’s otherwise pale face was relaxed as he snoozed happily. 

Suddenly, Sherlock awoke with a start as he heard a knock on the door.

“Prince Sherlock?” the head maid called. “Sorry to wake you, dear…”

“Oh no, don’t worry! I’ve been up for hours!” Sherlock called drowsily, his head drooping slightly as he started to fall back to sleep. A few moments passed before the maid knocked again.

“Who is it?” Sherlock asked, stretching his long, pale arms over his head as he woke again. 

“Still me, dear,” the head maid called, stifling a laugh. “It’s time to get ready, the gates will be opening soon!”

“Oh, yes, of course!” Sherlock said, before furrowing his brow in thought. “Ready…. for what, exactly?”

The head maid laughed again. “For your brother’s coronation, dear!”

Sherlock yawned lazily. “Yes, Mycroft’s….Oh!” he said, his eyes flying open at the realization. “It’s coronation day!” 

Sherlock sprung out of bed quickly, brushing his dark curls out of his eyes. It wasn’t so much Mycroft becoming King he cared about; Sherlock had known for years that it would happen, and besides, Mycroft already acted like the king of everything anyway, stalking around the castle silently. What Sherlock was excited about, though, was the party that went along with the coronation. 

Sherlock dressed quickly, throwing on the formal suit Mycroft’s staff had ordered for him specifically for today’s celebrations. It was far too luxurious for Sherlock’s liking, with an emerald green jacket made of lush velvet. Nevertheless, Sherlock threw the outfit on and dashed out of his room, still tucking his crisp white shirt into his trousers as he ran. 

He approached the foyer of the castle just as the two housemaids were throwing open the windows for the first time in what felt like ages. Sherlock leaned his head out to smell the fresh air and grinned to himself. How long had it been since he’d been able to simply enjoy the fresh air, or to even leave the palace walls? How long had it been since he’d made a new friend? Maybe he’d make a friend tonight at the party! Maybe…. 

Sherlock felt a heavy weight leave his chest as he peered outside the large palace windows. He’d been in the castle for so long, with so little contact with people other than the very small palace staff. Even his own brother had avoided him like the plague, making sure their paths never crossed. Sherlock had been given nearly everything he could ever want of course; it’s not as if he were lacking in funds or in material goods. No, even his smallest whims had been taken care of, whether it be books, or chemistry sets, or puzzles. However, Sherlock’s true passion was people. Figuring people out, solving their problems. Occasionally, Sherlock would get the chance to do this in the palace, but with such a small and trustworthy staff, it was rare. It was boring, utterly boring. Sherlock needed connection, and the past few weeks had been brutal. Ever since his 18th birthday a few months ago, all he could think about was finding someone to love him, to cuddle him when he was said, to kiss him tenderly. Maybe there would be some handsome, dark stranger at the ball tonight….

Sherlock giggled out loud, turning to walk towards the front doors of the palace. Maybe tonight, he thought, just maybe, I’ll find true love.


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft paced back and forth in front of the portrait of his father, whispering to himself. Conceal, don’t feel, don’t let it show. 

When accepting his role as King, Mycroft knew that he’d have to hold the ceremonial orb and scepter, without gloves. Terrified at the thought of his powers being revealed, Mycroft practiced and practiced, using a small ornament and a candlestick in place of the ceremonial items. The first few times, they’d iced over quickly in his hands, and he’d thrown them down in frustration. The third time, only the bottom third of each item had frozen after being held for a few second, but Mycroft still knew that wasn’t acceptable. 

Taking a deep breath, he picked them up again. Conceal, don’t feel. Conceal, don’t feel. When Mycroft placed them back on the table, there was only the smallest hint of ice. 

Acceptable, Mycroft thought, wiping his brow before walking slowly to the window of his study. He could see through the window that the crowds were already gathering at the palace gates, waiting desperately to be let in, to finally see their mysterious new King. Mycroft’s stomach clenched at the thought; soon, very soon, the gates would be opened and he’d have no choice but to spend an evening desperately trying to hide is powers not only from himself and his brother, but from the whole kingdom. 

“Mrs. Hudson! Tell the guards to open up the gates!” Mycroft yelled through the doors of his study. 

Slipping his gloves back on, Mycroft sighed. Sherlock would be there too, of course, and he’d have to try desperately not to get too close. Brace yourself, Mycroft, he thought. Caring is not an advantage.


End file.
